Dr Watson Investigates
by althechi
Summary: Set during the period when Sherlock Holmes was thought dead, Dr. Watson copes with the loss of his friend while using his own detective skills to uncover mysterious surrounding him.
1. Chapter 1

IT was the 4th of May, 1892, a full year since my friend had met his sad fate in the falls of Reichenbach, having taken the single most nefarious masterminds of crime, Professor Moriarty, with him to both their ends.

As I sat in my room and raised my glass of the finest whiskey in the house to his sacrifice, there was suddenly such a thunderous knocking at the front door that I had to interrupt my solemn toast in order to answer it.

The noise had woken up my wife, too, and it was she who opened the door and took the stranger's coat. Whilst I approached, I began to wonder who it could have been at such a late hour, seeing as the hours of my practice were clearly posted outside, and surely there would be no cause for any of my neighbours to visit, lest it was an emergency in need to immediate attention.

I emerged from my room and quickly made my way down the stairs to meet my curious visitor. As soon as he fell into my gaze it was clear that he would need my drink more than I.

The figure framed by the doorway, in the foreground of a slight storm, was the very embodiment of frenzy and fatigue all at once, his body heaving with every labored breath. His fair hair recently had had a hat too small upon it, and creases on his otherwise youthful face betrayed his true age, which I wagered to be nearly forty. His left hand, slightly stained with ink, gripped the doorknob loosely. His vest and evening-jacket were of good weave, but were hastily put on, judging by the fact that the third button on his vest was in the wrong hole. A dark red stain on his shin revealed the reason for his sudden intrusion.

He spoke first, "Good doctor, forgive me, but…"

"It's quite all right. Please, follow me, and we shall see what can be done about that."

He nodded his assent, and with him leaning on my good shoulder, we both entered my consulting room. I settled him upon the examination table, and I observed his wound. It was undoubtedly a caused by a bullet; this man evidently had not been in polite circles prior to this visit. As I began work on the wound, I noticed that his tie had a certain unusual tie-pin as it lay in a neat pile on the next table, placed on top of his jacket.

My patient spoke no word as I removed the bullet and dressed the wound, his eyes furtively darting from window to window. However, once the surgery was over and I had released his calf, he spoke to me in a hushed whisper.

"I thank you, Dr. Watson. How much will that be?"

I quoted my price, the money for which he quickly withdrew from his wallet, with a curious slip of paper among the notes.

"Dr. Watson, there are those in this part of the country whose wishes are the exact opposite of yours. You must not let your next visitors get your hands on it, nor those after that. It must be kept safe until J arrives."

"This is highly irregular, Mr…"

"My name is less important that what is contained in it. Please, good doctor, I beg you. I can stay no longer."

With that, he retrieved his hat and coat, along with a small bag, and headed back out into the night, limping all the way. As the door slammed shut, I took a closer look at the mysterious slip of paper he had passed me. It was covered in numbers and letters, whose meaning was not immediately obvious. I placed it in a drawer, and still pondering my strange visitor and his purpose, went back to my room and the waiting glass of whiskey.


	2. Chapter 2

It was not till the next morning that this affair received a bewildering new twist. I was first aware of it as I sat down to breakfast with my wife, who was evidently excited about some matter or other.

Picking up the butter-knife, I asked, "What on earth has happened that has gotten you so excited, Mary?"

"Why, John, haven't you heard?"

"As I have not left the house this morning, I should expect not."

She leaned closer to me, whispering almost conspiratorially: "That man that came last night – they've found him dead!"

"Dead!"

"Dead indeed! His body was found on Bayswater road…I'll get the paper for you."

It was on the fourth page of the Times, opposite another case the great Sigerson of Norway had solved, that the story had broken out. I read through the article with great interest, part personal and part professional.

_DEATH IN THE STREETS_

_TODAY at about three o'clock in the morning a body was found at the side of Bayswater road, part way between Paddington and Hyde Park. It has preliminarily been identified by police as that of Phillips Carew, Esq., son of the late Sir Danvers Carew, MP and Justice of the Peace._

I looked up from the paper. "Phillips Carew! This will no doubt cause scandal!"

"Read on. The case gets even stranger."

I did so, already bewildered at the scope of the affair that I had already become some small part of.

_The cause of death has been determined to be purely accidental; it appears that he stumbled upon the street and fell under a carriage._

_The police request all members of the public with any information on the accident to come forward._

"Come now, Mary. How do you know it was he? It could be any number of travelers along that road."  
>"Well, you know Ms. Hamilton?"<p>

"She lives across the street, isn't she?"

"Well, her husband was returning from a late errand when he saw half the police force on the curb. He managed to get a glimpse of the victim, and it's exactly what our mystery guest looked like!"

I began to ponder the situation. Perhaps my late night guest and the late Phillips Carew were one and the same; there was something of Sir Danvers Carew in the man's eyes, come to think of it.

Furthermore, it was curious that there would be such a large investigation for an incident that was a "pure accident". Together they formed too many questions to let to rest.

As soon as I had finished my breakfast, I took my coat and hat, pocketed the paper the late Phillips Carew had passed me, and headed for the latest police station. My neighbour would cover well enough for my practice for the day.

It was a little time past 10 o'clock once I arrived at my destination. Inside the sparsely decorated station was a constable at a desk. He was a youngish man with a thin set of whiskers on his face.

The constable looked up inquisitively, asking, "Good morning, sir. What brings you here?"

"I understand that the body of Phillips Carew, Esq. was found this morning on Bayswater road?"

"That is correct."

"I may have certain information that may help in the investigation."

At this, his tone suddenly became outright acerbic. "And, I suppose, gain a reward and the undying gratitude of the swiftly dwindling Carew estate?"

"I mean no such thing, sir! I only wish to aid in your investigation."

"Very well, then, if you must."

At this, he took a ledger out of a drawer behind him. It had evidently seen little use, by the rather small number of names in it.

"Name and profession?"

"Dr. John Watson."

As he had changed from a bored predicament to a vitriolic one, now the constable's face conveyed an expression of total amazement. The movement of the pen suddenly stopped, arrested by some great force.

"Dr. Watson! Sherlock Holmes's…"

With a resigned air, I confirmed his conjecture. "Yes, I am his friend and biographer."

"Well then, that's different! Tell me then, will he be…"

A pang of sorrow shot through my heart upon that innocuous question. Although it had been a year since, the death of my friend still weighed heavy upon me.

"No. Holmes is…elsewhere."

If the constable had noticed my shift of tone, he did not remark upon it. He instead led me to a back room, where a few figures were seated, and some were standing. Among them was Inspector Athelney Jones, whom I had met before during the matter of the Sign of the Four, and Inspector Fredrickson, who was new to me.

Between the two, Jones recognized me immediately, and turned to greet me warmly.

"Dr. Watson! Then may I assume Holmes…"

"No. Holmes is indisposed."

Jones's tone then became somewhat less cordial. "Well then, if Holmes will not be lending his 'talents' to Scotland Yard this time, what are you down here for then?"

"I have simply come to provide testimony."

"Upon the Phillips Carew case, no doubt."

"No doubt. But before I lead you down the wrong path, may I assume that this Phillips Carew, Esq. was a light-haired man, left-handed, about 30 years of age, a Freemason, and had a recently bandaged wound on his…right calf at the moment of death?"

There was a stunned silence in the room for a good half a minute. All in the room stared at me in total surprise. At long last, it was Inspector Fredrickson who broke the silence.

"My God! Dr. Watson, you must be psychic…not even this Holmes could deduce as much without ever seeing the body!"

I quickly corrected him, saying, "No, not at all. I was merely checking to see if he was the same man who came to my practice last night."

Sounds indicating understanding and relief emanated throughout the room. Inspector Fredrickson sat back down, his broad face now totally flushed with a bright shade of red.

Jones quickly recovered, and confirmed what I assumed of Danvers. "That's our man, all right."

"It may be a point of interest that throughout my examination and surgery he was consistently looking out the windows, as though searching for some hidden enemy."

Jones' face brightened a little. "Hum! That is suggestive indeed. Is there any other point to note, Doctor?"

"You do know it was a bullet wound?"

"The coroner indicates as much, Dr. Watson."

"Then I assume that Carew's death was not 'a pure accident' as printed?"

Jones's expression grew more severe at this moment. "That is correct. We strongly suspect foul play."

"Apart from the fact that it was at my practice where his wound was treated, I have another piece of evidence that may help."

This time it was Fredrickson who asked, "And what would that be, Dr. Watson?"

"This," I muttered, drawing the slip of paper, the one with its myriad of strange symbols, from my pocket and passing it to the inspector, who began to study it with interest. Jones sidled along to peer over Fredrickson's shoulder.

I explained, "He passed it to me the night he visited. He said that it would only be safe in the hands of 'J', with no further explanation. Carew left immediately afterwards."

Fredrickson, still handling the slip of paper, replied, "Curious indeed! Well, Dr. Watson, no doubt this marks a key clue. Many thanks, Doctor. Is there anything else…?"

"Well, no."

I paused.

"Well, I suppose I might be able to help if I had some preliminary reports. I may not have the deductive genius of my friend, but I would maintain the same confidentiality…"

My voice trailed off and I instantly felt embarrassed at my thoughts given voice. I knew that I was by no means close to Holmes's league in terms of his deductive methods, and was guilty of such presumption. This feeling only grew worse as Jones and Fredrickson spoke in hushed whispers.

I was about to exit, regretting that such impulsive words had ever passed my lips, when one of them spoke up. It was Jones.

"Very well. Perhaps we may be able to gain some insight from your prodigal friend. We…approve of his results, if not his methods. Request the reports from Collingwood at the front desk. But remember; you are not to reveal any detail of this to the press, else it be on your head. Understood?"

I could not believe my ears. I spoke, choked at first, "A-absolutely. Good morning, inspectors."

Thus ended my visit to the station. With these preliminary reports tucked under my arm, I decided to make my way home, but not before examining the roadside on which the late Phillips Carew had met his fate.

Despite some underpaid cleaner's attempt to remove traces of blood, a dull reddish-brown stain remained. Seven hours ago, it would have been fresh crimson, testament to the violence of the scene. A crime in crimson, then. I smiled ironically as the phrase came to mind.

An examination of the road revealed no more clues. I thought for a moment to read up more on Carew, to delve into the thick indices that filled my friend's room and to look under "C" and discover Phillip Carew's year of birth, his exact position in the matter of things, his parents and siblings and so on and so forth.

But no doubt Mrs. Hudson would not entertain the suggestion, even for a moment, and I doubt I could return there anytime soon, not without the weight of my friend' loss once again upon my shoulders.

Then, it would be with these reports, and those printed in the newspapers, that I would pursue this foolhardy endeavor.

It was only a few days later, late on Friday night that I could truly examine the reports. Chief among them were the coroner's findings.

_The body was found face down, in a small pool of blood. A blunt wound near the left ear contributed to this. Multiple vertebrae (labeled in Fig. 5) were broken. These or the head wound would be an adequate cause of death. There is also the matter of a wound (cause unclear) on the body's right calf, recently treated. The death may have occurred up to 4 hours prior to discovery, judging by…_

Looking at the diagram provided on the next page, I noted that the damage to the vertebrae – there were two especially damaged ones, one high on the back, nearly between the shoulder blades, and the other near the coccyx – would be consistent with that of a carriage accident, but certainly not the head wound.

The head wound presented conundrums of its own. I referred to my account of the Boscombe Valley mystery, but found it to be an unsatisfactory comparison. In that case the victim had been unequivocally struck from the back. It was not so simple in this case. The attacker may have been left or right handed, and the victim facing him any number of ways.

Was there even an attacker? Could he have fallen from the curb, perhaps leaning on his weak leg? As possibilities unfolded before my eyes, instead of revealing solutions, they only turned the waters more murky.

If only Holmes was here, to cut through these uncertainties and on to the truth, to use his great powers of deduction to state there and then how Carew was struck on the head and fell – or vice versa. But that was impossible. I felt like I was in medical school again, with parts of the solution but no means of piecing them together into the answer.

I instead turned my mind to the report on the late Phillip Carew. He lived in an apartment in Trafalgar Square, yet the Carew estate, managed by his elder sister, was located somewhat further north, in Watford.

By the testimony of his sister, they had met once before, on the 13th of April, where he wished to borrow money. Apparently, Phillips had none of the shrewdness of his father or his sister, and had gotten in a bad lot, and had essentially spent away his inheritance. After a heated discussion, Ms. Carew threw him out of the house, and told him in so many words never to return again.

The next testimony was that of Eric Wilkins, proud cab-driver of hansom No. 2991 – although from what he had to say, perhaps he wished he had never seen so much as a riding-crop.

Eric Wilkins had been moving at a slow canter down Bayswater road, and had just passed Notting Hill gate when a youth dressed in a red cap and a blue overcoat dashed towards him in the opposite direction. Thinking that the man was in need of a hansom, Wilkins quickly stopped the cab to let him approach. To his surprise, the youth pulled out a revolver and ordered him out of the driver's seat. Once Wilkins had descended, the youth clubbed him with the pistol, and he was only vaguely aware of the carriage racing down Bayswater Road. The hansom itself was discovered some small distance from Lancaster Gate, the horses pacing distractedly around.

I put down the testimonies and turned to my thoughts. Wilkins may not have recognized the youth, but any Paddington resident would have recognized that feared red cap and blue coat. They are the uniform of the Bears, a feared gang with stakes in most of the vices known to man, such as crime, prostitution, and gambling.

Pondering a while more, perhaps Carew had gotten involved with them, gambling what wealth he had away through his dealings with the Bears. Thus, their murderous attack may have been a form of retribution for unpaid debts and marked the end of patience, assuming that the dint by pistol butt conducted on Wilkins also fell on Carew's head, and that Wilkins' cab was the instrument of murder.

So far these would account for the wound, the blow on the head, and Carew's grotesque fate. But these alone did not constitute an adequate explanation for this mysterious "J", nor the slip of paper with its multitude of numbers. Furthermore, why bother with such an elaborate method of faking an accident when they had clearly shot at him earlier in the night? Stepping forth into the light a little only revealed how much darkness there was to explore.


	3. Chapter 3

It was when my thoughts turned back to this "J" that a hurried knocking at the front door brought me back to the land of the conscious. I observed the clock on my mantelpiece; it was a little before midnight. Wary of late-night guests, I withdrew my old service revolver from my desk drawer, checking it was loaded. I descended the stairs as the knocking grew louder and more impatient.

I approached, the door, apprehensive, and had already turned the lock before I realized perhaps caution was the better part of valor. I opened the door by a slight slit and asked, "Who is it?"

A hoarse whisper came in response. "It is 'J'. Have you got it?"

"It is in the hands of the police as we speak," said I.

"What!"

At this, he threw open the unlocked door, nearly striking me in the face. I took a step back, raising my revolver straight at my rude guest's heart. He was dressed roughly, with a kerchief concealing his jaw. His low forehead, beady eyes and boils upon his nose nearly gave the appearance of a caricature of a criminal.

Still wielding my revolver, I informed him, "It would not be wise to turn to violence, my dear friend. It would be probably better to cooperate."

"You-"

However, before he or I could speak, to my misfortune, Big Ben had chosen that very moment to strike twelve times, indeed, on the stroke of midnight. His attention and my own wandered briefly for a moment, mine for a second more than his.

In that moment of distraction he threw himself upon my gun-arm, bringing us crashing down on the ground. I landed on my old wound, my face creasing up at this excruciating pain. As I curled up in this temporary paralysis, my foe scrambled for the revolver.

I could not allow this to happen, and I grabbed one of his ankles, dragging him away from my weapon. At this most inopportune moment my wife emerged from our rooms, and seeing the violence on our doorstep, yelled for my safety. This distraction nearly proved my undoing, but I was able to grasp my revolver and slide it far from the villain's grasp.

When we both had managed to get up, I was positioned between the crook and my own revolver. He would either have to defeat me here to get at it, or strike me down without its help. Either way, he sent his balled fist swinging towards my face. Remembering a move of zaibatsu that a friend in the Marines had taught me, I side-stepped, seizing his wrist and the underside of his upper arm, and thus used his arm as a pivot to fling him onto the ground. His chin landed before his body, a sick crack implying it had broken. His head slumped to one side, indicating he was now unconscious.

My wife was now at the bottom of the stairs, an expression of shock on her face as she examined the scene.

"My God, John! Are you all right?"

Stroking my slightly bloodied mouth, I responded, "Better off than my friend on the ground here, at any rate. Come now; help me truss him up on the examining table."

It was not an easy task, considering the mass of my downed foeman, but at last Mary and I were able to get him up on the examination table. I told her to fetch Inspector Fredrickson immediately while I tended to our rude guest.

Removing the crook's kerchief to mend his chin, I noted that the boils on his nose extended to the rest of his face – that, combined with his disjointed and incomplete set of teeth made a truly grotesque façade. Nonetheless, I set to work, and it was in the process of my finishing my bandaging of the crook's chin that he began to return to consciousness.

"Hmm…what?" said he, clearly still not fully aware of his predicament yet.

"Good sir, you are currently in my consulting-room. Perhaps you would like to answer some questions before the police arrive."

"T'aint saying nothing," grumbled he.

"Come now, that is no way to talk. It would be better to cooperate."

At this he uttered a series of unprintable expletives, several directed at my wife for good measure.

"Be that as it may, I may be able to put in a good word for you once the police come," said I.

What profanities that followed evidently showed that he would not cooperate in the slightest. Sighing, I took the seat opposite the table, and placed my revolver on the table should he attempt more violence.

It was fortunate for me – and for him – that he did not do so, and that when the police finally arrived, with Fredrickson at their lead we were not at each others' throats, for that would have made the problem ever so more intractable.

Fredrickson stepped into my room, and said, "Well then, Dr. Watson. You told me you had this 'J' that Carew was talking about."

I gestured at the table. "He lies there, most uncooperative."

Fredrickson's gaze turned towards the crook on my examining table, and he blinked once or twice, evidently in confusion.

"But this is Sidney Siddeley, the cat-burglar! The letter 'J' appears not once in his name," said he.

"Precisely," said I.

Pausing a while to reflect upon this, Fredrickson gestured to the three police officers he had brought with him, who untied Siddeley from my table and led him out.

As he left, the Inspector turned to me, saying, "Many thanks, Dr. Watson. Perhaps we shall gain more information from this Siddeley on the fate of Phillips Carew."

"He strikes me as a decidedly uncooperative character, dear Inspector. I wish you the best of luck in wringing the truth from him. His vocabulary is colorful but limited," said I.

Thus did the second day of the matter of Phillips Carew's murder – now I can safely say it was murder indeed – end. As I headed to bed I considered poring over the copy of that bewildering note, but all the strain of the night before persuaded me otherwise.


	4. Chapter 4

Owing to the business of the night before, I awoke on the morning of Saturday, the 7th of May at nearly half past ten, late even for my habits. It was good that my practice only ran on the weekdays, else I would have angry customers to answer to. As it was, it was only that Mary wished to take me along to a performance in the afternoon, near Coburg Square. The play was _La Tosca_, written by Sardou.

The melodrama on stage was rather masked by the drama that I was engaged in, and I was busy fiddling with the paper which I had copied the numbers of the slip to when my wife chided me for not paying attention. Nonetheless, I watched only in a distracted form, still pondering Phillips Carew's death. When asked by my wife what I found the best part, I could not recall any part distinct enough – an answer that though honest, got me another chiding.

When I returned home, I at once headed for the study, and laid the paper on my table. It read as such:

_29.04.92/11.01.04/15.32.10/03.17.11/16.15.23/11.34.16/23.04.11/17.01.19/08.11.24… _and continued in this way, ending with the three digits "371".

Such was the nature of the cipher. Evidently it must have hidden some kind of message from Carew to Siddeley. It could not have been a particularly sophisticated one; else Siddeley would have had no chance of deciphering it.

I began to remember something of the case of the tragedy at Birlstone, a case that my friend and Professor Moriarty were both involved in, and included a similarly devious cipher. Perhaps there would be enough similarities between the two to apply my friend's methods to this nefarious message. Maybe the numbers were supposed to refer to particular parts of a publication that both Carew and Siddeley owned. I despaired, realizing that there would be very few ones common to both. It was only when I spotted the _Times_ lying on my study table that my hope was rekindled.

Perhaps the numbers were used to refer to words on specific lines or columns, and when written out would spell out the message. However, I instantly despaired when I saw 92 at the end of the first number – there were not 92 pages nor lines nor columns anywhere in the _Times_. Then I glanced up at the corner, and realized the first numeral referred to the date – 29th April, 1892. I rushed to retrieve my old copy from my drawer, and set to work.

As for the interpretation of the rest of the numbers, I first assumed them to be the page number, followed by the column, then the row the word was located in. When the third word I yielded was "pineapple" I realized I had erred.

Switching the rows and columns, some meaning slowly emerged, and I was done before the hour was up. On my note-paper the full message between Carew and his ally read:

_Pearls and silver on second floor, door in front of staircase. Open bottom shelf of study table. Key is 371._

Even as I translated the message, I realised Carew had intended for Siddeley to break into his sister's house and steal certain valuables, no doubt to pay off his own debts. All was now clear to me. With a few cursory words to my wife, I dashed out of my home to the police station.


End file.
